


All you are is a fire hazard

by Melanie_D_Peony



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Blood, Blood and Injury, Fire, Heavy Angst, Heavy topics, M/M, Mature rating due to ansgsty themes, Mental Instability, Mentions of the Unknowing, Plot spiralling into stream of consciousness, Pre-Season/Series 01, Rough Kissing, Self-Destruction, Swearing, burns and explosions, jontim angst ahead, no beta we die like man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24452737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_D_Peony/pseuds/Melanie_D_Peony
Summary: Before that, he is just an ordinary statement giver, just enough on the side of being a loose cannon to put you all on edge. But then he lunges on Jon with a knife and you throw yourself on him before you have a chance to think.And now you are here, being patched up by your boss, whom you always have half a mind to strangle yourself.Because of the way he shrugs the threats off of him like he is above knives and cultists like he is invincible.Because of the way he reminds you of the last person you cared this deeply about.And because you'll be damned before you end up being left behind again.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	All you are is a fire hazard

The knife is out in a blink of a moment. 

Before that, he is just an ordinary statement giver, just enough on the side of being a loose cannon to put you all on edge. He sweats so profoundly that his skin seems to melt like a wax doll kept too close to the flame. You are on your feet before you know it and even Martin stops puttering in the kitchenette, rejoining you in the bullpen. You don't miss the subtle way Sasha's hand wraps around the receiver of the landline on her desk. 

'I-I'm looking for the Head Archivist?' The man's voice is thick with saliva he swallows noisily back and you almost curse at Jon as he lifts his gaze from the report on Sasha's desk. 

'That would be me.' He announces calmly and at first, you think that he is completely oblivious to the fact that he is talking to a half-crazed junkie. But then you notice the tautness to his shoulders. Jon is no fool, you remind yourself. And you are all used to the presence of lunatics, hovering at the precipice of every discourse about the supernatural, whether it's a convo in the 'What the Ghost' comment section or the renowned Magnus Institute itself.

'How can I help?' Jon prompts the man who just stands there. The way he sluggishly licks his chapped lips makes your stomach turn.

'I want to make a statement.' He croaks.

'I see. Why don't you join me in my office, where we can…' 

'No.' The stranger interrupts, eyes flashing between the four of you with the animalistic intelligence of a panicked, rabid stray. 'Here is fine.' 

'Okay.' Jon says slowly and you know how suspicious he is from the fact that he doesn't even attempt to retrieve a tape recorder. 'Would you mind giving me your name for the statement?' 

'I would, actually.' The man chortles mirthlessly, manic grin moulding the sagging flash of his face into a grotesque parody of a smile. 

'That's fine. So what is the statement about?' 

'Oh, it's simple really, Archivist. It's merely the Church of the Lightless Flame, sending their condolences.' His voice begins as a spit, pitch slowly rising to a manic shriek. 'Say hi to your God for them.'

And with that, he reaches for his belt and suddenly he has a blade held high as he propels himself towards Jon. You move more out of instinct than a conscious decision, the automatisms of the Trinity College rugby training robbing you of any kind of agency as you push him to the ground with a well-rehearsed tackle. You straddle the man's legs when he falls, but when you try to pin his knife-wielding hand to the ground your nerve endings scream with pain. You snatch your palm back as the air fills with the stench of scalded flesh and the junkie takes the opportunity to slash at you. New pain blooms in your forearm where the knife leaves a long, mauling kiss. Then there are arms under your shoulders as Martin drags you off the man and you are dimly aware of Jon's voice as he shouts something while Sasha crowds him, pushing him further out of reach.

The junkie scrambles to his hands and knees, panting, his sweat dropping to the floor in thick, oily beads. There's a moment of stunned silence, then he shoots for the exit and you have half a mind of lunging after him. But you bump into Martin who blocks your way with arms stretched out. 

'Tim.' He chides and noise is flooding back to you. You hear Sasha southing down the line at someone from security and, curiously enough, the everyday office ambience of a phone ringing and the distinct stuttering of a Xerox machine. 'Are you okay?' 

You are dimly aware of the dampness of your shirt sleeve as you nod. 

'I'm fine.' You wager but Martin is pushed aside by Jon before you have a chance to properly answer.

'Stoker.' He frowns at you and while you don't expect swooning fits of gratitude from Jon of all people, his angry expression makes your indignancy swell. 'My office, now.' 

The silence hardens, thickens as all the assistants' eyes follow Jon's fuming retreat. You barely have time to make a _"get a load of this asshole"_ face at Sasha before he barks your name again. 

You stagger to his more private space, your futile attempt to catch your dripping blood ending in complete failure. Jon's usually tidy desk is buried under what looks like an explosion of a first aid kit, there are different size bandages everywhere and Jon himself is busy wrestling open some gauze. 

'Sit.' He commands and you laugh in disbelief as you obey him.

'Geez, boss, there is no need to say thank you really, I only saved your ungrateful hind out there.' Your grin sits a bit uncomfortably and your arm throbs to the rhythm of your building anger.

Jon ignores your words and steps to you. Nudging your legs apart he steps between your knees and tugs on your elbow until you offer him your injured arm. Blood smear against his fingers as he pulls on the ruined material of your shirt. He huffs at the sight of your cut, annoyed, and presses the gauze against it to absorb the blood, his other hand gently cradling your forearm, holding it in place. He does not meet your eyes for the whole time, which makes you well up with annoyance.

'In fact, why don't you give me the silent treatment as a sign of your heartfelt appreciation?' 

'You should have let me handle the situation myself.' Jon says to you and you can feel your eyebrows travel upwards in shock. 

'Right, because he sure would have calmed down once you let him stab you for, what… six, seven times max?' 

'I am perfectly capable of diffusing scenarios like this myself.' 

'Oh, I didn't know that "hostage negotiator" was part of your job description.' You retort, making Jon's troubled frown deepen.

'Why, I didn't realise "bodyguard" was part of yours.' He says as he finally meets your gaze, looking about as angry as you feel, but keeping his composure nevertheless, ever the cool, calm, distant professional.

'So, what, you expect me to step back and let you get slashed next time?' You demand unable to help the way your voice creeps up a decibel or two. 

'No, why don't you go ahead and make me watch you get murdered instead?' With that Jon finally snaps and there's an irk of satisfaction in the way you make his defences crumble. He peels the gauze away to check if you've stopped bleeding with a gentleness that belies his agitation. 

'The guy was twice the size of you Jon, for heaven's sake.' You mumble as his answer has you subdued a bit. It's not often that Jon allows anyone to see how much he cares. 

'Sure and your build is why you fared so well.' He gestures at your wound before he steps to the table, gets more gauze, begins to methodically clean your skin. The task makes him look sedated, contemplative. 'I could have kept him talking, at least until help came, you know.' 

'He didn't come to talk and you are perfectly aware of that.' 

'I could have lured him in my office.' Jon insists, with an evident pout to his voice.

'So he could have chopped you up in private?' You try to joke to break the tension, but is too dark, too soon, too close to the gallows and Jon just winces in response. 

'Rather me than you.' He mutters, almost as if to himself. 

But it is still that comment that does you in. You are on your feet almost against you will once more and you are pushing, crowding, gathering Jon's lapels in your good hand as he hurriedly backs away until he bumps into his desk. 

'Listen here Jon, I don't give a fuck how little do you personally care for your own wellbeing. But your life is not yours alone you bloody selfish prick. So take some fucking responsibility.' 

The words come from deep within, scratching with the scalding heat of magma in your throat. They are words out of their context, their place, they are words you should have said under different circumstances, you should have addressed them to someone else, long ago. But it's here and now they finally find their way to the surface and they have a taste of redemption regardless of their futility. 

'That's exactly what I was trying to do. I have a duty to see these things to the end. The Institute...' Jon begins, looking unphased, sounding indignant so you talk over him because you vowed to not let your concerns be shrugged off this time around. 

'Oh, no. No. I know how obsessed you get. I know that you think that your end goal is all that counts.' You laugh bitterly as you grip his collar even tighter. You have an urge to give him a good shake. And you get a disconcerting, dizzying feel as two very distinct realities overlap in your head. 'I know your type.'

And he has the audacity to narrow his eyes at you, studying you with that expression he wields like a plier to pull confessions out of people. So you do lift him a little until your eyes are level until you are nose to nose and force the conversation back on him again. 

'And I am aware that you think you're bloody invincible and even if you aren't it's not going to make a difference. But it's fine if you can't muster the will to not throw yourself bodily into harm's way for your own best interest. Because you'll just have to do it for the sake of the people around you. Like Martin, for one.' You demand.

'Martin?' Jon looks at you in a state of utter confusion that compels you to bulldoze on. 

'Fuck, do it for me if that makes a difference.' You spit at him, angrier and more confrontational than ever.

Yet strangely it makes his expression soften in a way that worsens the mounting pressure in the pit of your stomach and another dam breaks as he stammers out a choked apology.

'I-I'm so sorry.' He whispers, hotly against your chin and Hell, when did you even get so close? 'I didn't realise… I didn't know you had such strong feelings about…' 

'It goes to show that you know fuck all.' You reply, grinning, satisfied with his annoyed glare and suddenly, your lips are on Jon's, your hips pressing flush against each other's, while his hands roam the pane of your back freely. You abandon his lapels in favour of his jaw, feeling the drum of his pulse against your thumb and his mouth is soft and yielding against yours as you deepen the kiss desperately. 

It ends abruptly as it began when you use your wounded hand to rake his salt and pepper hair and you have to break the kiss as a bolt of pain travels through your body, originating from your burnt palm.

'Motherfucker.' You swear with feel at the psycho who'd hurt you and Jon gets busy tugging on your hand to see the extent of the damage.

'He burned you?' He studied the blisters scattered against your palm. 'How?' 

'I honestly don't know.' You shrug, half distracted still by the nearby presence of Jon's mouth, pouting unhappily at your ruined hand. 'He just felt so hot. Maybe he had some kind of acid he'd wanted to throw on you?' 

'We can't treat all of this here.' Jon declares, commanding again regardless of how pliant he was but a moment ago. 'Let me patch you up a little bit and we can take you to A&E after.' 

But you snatch your hand back, the sudden movement making your cut weep again. 

'It's fine.' You bark, trying to back out. But it's Jon who pins you into place this time by simply reaching out, taking your wrist into his hand gently again. 

'You know, your big speech about looking after myself would sound a whole lot less hypocritical if you'd let me help.' He peers up at you from over the brim of his glasses. 

And if the words and the look of sympathy and concern make you stagger back on the chair like cordless puppet well, you can always blame it on the bloodloss, you think. 

* * *

And you don't talk about the stolen kiss you shared as he wraps your cut in gauze and your palm in cling film. 

And you will the sheer memory of it to go away as Jon slides into further depths of paranoia a year from there.

And you especially don't bring it up on your last night in the B&B in Great Yarmouth as you sneak into his room and slip into the bed beside him. The same way you don't address the fact that your cheeks are wet where you press them into his back as he draws soothing circles onto your arms where they are laced around him. And he doesn't say that he only lets you roll him on his back and frame him with your forearms, leaning down to kiss because he doesn't really expect to make it back. And similarly, you don't confess to kissing him only because you don't actually care whether you will. 

But it's one of the last things that flash through your mind before you thumb the detonator. 

You don't forgive him, because there is nothing to forgive. You and him, it was the wrong place, the wrong time. And Danny? Fuck, he just had rotten luck, _innit_? Because it had to run out eventually, with all the good looks and the charm bequeathed on him. It was only a matter of time, really when he had the trademark Stoker self-destruction thrown into the mix and you are sure by now that you can not exist in the strange world that snatched him just like this, that hinges of fucking whims just like an absurd, bloody parody of a circus. 

But you thank Jon for the kisses that tasted like atonement even when they would 't save either of you and for the last morsel of agency as you wrestle the detonator from him. 

And you don't much mind the flames after that. 


End file.
